


Meme Ficlet: Best

by greywash



Series: Meme Ficlets (Spring 2012... and onward) [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:11:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Meme ficlet, archived off Tumblr; unbeta'ed and un-Britpicked.</em>
</p>
<p><strong>treesong requested</strong>: Would it be remotely hot if 8 and 12 had kinky sex? what if they added 5?</p>
<p>
  <strong>5. Lestrade<br/></strong>
  <strong>8. Donovan<br/></strong>
  <strong>12. Anderson</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meme Ficlet: Best

**Author's Note:**

> _THIS PROMPT_. OMFG. Um... just so we're totally clear: this is porn. I mean, this is shamelessly unrepentant and handwavy porn. If you are wondering how these three ever ended up in bed together in the first place, you are probably going to be disappointed. Sorry. :\
> 
> Quick disclaimer, too: I am really not ever sure what kinky sex entails for normal people, because I appear to have been wired without the kink button (as in, when it comes to most things on kink lists, I don't have any particular opinions one way or the other? So I always feel a bit weird writing stuff that I know other people have very strong opinions about, because I'm sure I get things wrong. :\\). Also I feel like half the people reading this are going to be like "oh wow no that's TOTALLY OUT THERE" and the other half will be "oh wow no that's TOTALLY VANILLA" and really mostly while writing it I was thinking "UGH, ALL THE FEELS ABOUT THESE THREE." So, uh, sorry??
> 
> (Can I mention, also, that I really wish Anderson had a canonical first name? Because I really wish that. Every time I write him I have to deal with picking one and I legit _hate_ picking character names. He's Neil, here, because that's what turned up for the first Anderson on the random name generator. \o?)

Sally likes Neil's hands best, so she ties his wrists (broad ribbon, not rope, because he's bony and has sensitive skin and this isn't the sort of thing where he _wants_ her to leave marks), and he watches her, face pale and serious, until she leans in close to the junction of his jaw and his ear. She whispers—the same as always, nothing new—and when she pulls back, he's smiling, hands clasped in front of his breastbone, tidy and patient. She sits cross-legged on their bed in front of him and her dressing gown falls open while she pins back her hair so it won't tangle.

"You missed a bit," he tells her, "just behind your left ear." She pats at her hair until she catches ahold of the renegade curl, then pulls it up and pins it back, too. Neil leans in and kisses the tip of her nose, her chin, the corner of her mouth ( _careful_ ), and then there's a soft knock on the half-open bedroom door.

"Yeah," she says, turning. "Sorry, getting... distracted."

Greg's laughing, a little, when he pushes the door open the rest of the way (he's just wearing his boxers; he always used to keep on his vest, but it always ended up getting in the way), and Neil's smiling, looking down at his own crossed legs, at his knobbly knees. She presses her thumb to the fold in the left one and Neil takes a breath, deep and looks up at her, eyes dark. The bed dips as Greg climbs up next to them.

"I want a kiss," Neil says, turning towards him, and Greg hums and wraps his broad hand around Neil's head and tilts him closer, and Neil smiles against Greg's mouth, as Sally walks her fingertips up Neil's thigh, slipping under the hem of his boxers. He shivers, clasping his bound hands tighter, and Greg bites at Neil's lip and Sally slides her hands up and up and up until she can turn her hands up under the waistband of Neil's boxers and ease them down. Neil's already half-hard. Sally can tell that Greg's quite a good kisser. His hand on Neil's head is broad, blunt-fingered, and both Sally and Neil like that. It's even stopped seeming strange, mostly, to rub her hands over Greg's back and think, _he could throw either of us around, if we asked him to_ , and to know that Neil will nod, jerky, too fast, when she whispers that to him later. Neil straightens his legs out so that Sally can work his boxers off, though not without difficulty, and Greg makes a low noise, dropping his hand down to pet at Neil's cock. Sally slides up behind Greg, presses her body against Greg's back, tugging her dressing gown open, sliding it off. Greg shivers, leaning back, and Sally meets Neil's eyes over Greg's shoulder. Neil is smirking at her.

"They're lovely, aren't they?" Neil says. Greg is an absolutely shameless breast man, and Sally is absolutely shameless about exploiting that. She cups her hands under her breasts to guide her nipples up the plane of his back, and Greg's whole body jerks. She aches, so she does it again, grinning over at Neil. She doesn't have to touch Greg to know he's already leaking a wet spot through his boxers, but she presses her whole front against him and does it anyway.

"Um," Greg says intelligently, and Sally presses her forehead to the back of his shoulder and laughs, breathless.

"I'd help you, I would," Neil tells him, very seriously, "but my hands are tied."

Greg huffs, and says, "You're terrible, the both of you," and Sally says, "Oh, well, yes, but only _briefly_ —up you go," and Greg pushes up to his knees and helps her get his boxers down and off. One of the more charming things about Greg is that he can already be clumsy and flushed, cock already dripping, from Neil's long dirty kisses and the press of her breasts and a single touch of her hand.

"Hm." Neil's voice is dropped low. "Now _what_ are we going to do with you?"

It's rhetorical, really, because Greg says, "If _one_ of you doesn't fuck me—" sounding very put out, like he thinks that's at all probable. Sally leans over and tugs open the drawer of the bedside table, fumbling about for supplies. She drops two condoms on the duvet and wishes leaving them out ahead of time for easy access weren't so likely to just send the three of them into helpless giggles.

"Which?" Neil asks, meeting Sally's eyes again. She nods, and Neil grins at her. "Want me to fuck you?" he asks. He's still looking at Sally, but she knows he's not talking to her. "Or you want her to do it? She can be bigger; I'm warmer—mphf—" because Greg groans at that, grabbing Neil's head and kissing him, open-mouthed and hungry, so that Sally can see the red slide of their tongues together. She bites her own lip, because no one is allowed to do it for her, and tugs on her glove, then opens the lube and slicks up her fingers. It won't be her. It's only her on bad days, when Greg comes by without calling and hardly talks at all and then it's the biggest dildo they've got, sometimes her fingers, too, and Neil has to hold Greg still and kiss him while she fucks him through one orgasm and into another while he's shaking, practically sobbing, and after, she and Neil have to take turns talking each other down from going around and murdering Greg's ex-wife. But today was a good day: crime solved, bad guy caught, a university student home safe with his family with bruises and nothing worse, and Greg came by but it was the good kind of surprise, and that means if they ask Greg will choose—

"—you," Greg says, rough, against Neil's mouth, "I want—"

He stops, going redder and redder, all the way over his shoulders and down his back, and Sally grins at Neil again. Neil smiles back and says, "It's all right, Greg, you can say you want to fuck my girlfriend—rather a sign of good taste, you know."

"I want to fuck your girlfriend," Greg admits, and Sally laughs and pushes two fingers into his arse, all in one go. "Oh, hell," Greg says, and drops his head down, and Neil meets Sally's eyes and then bends to nudge Greg's face up with his nose, then meets Sally's eyes, and then kisses Greg, long and wet and slow. Sally hooks her chin over Greg's shoulder and breathes deep: the evergreen scent of Greg's all-natural biodegradable cruelty-free tea tree body wash (Christmas gift from his daughter; she's fifteen and newly vegan) and Neil's idiotic sport fragrance deodorant and Pears soap; underneath, the warm smells of skin and sweat and arousal, theirs and hers together. She _aches_. Neil curls his tongue up against Greg's upper lip, and Sally works another finger in, and Greg breaks away enough to gasp, "I—okay, Christ," and Sally grabs him a condom.

"Think you can do it with your mouth?" she asks, holding a condom over Greg's shoulder with her left hand.

"To be honest," he says, a little breathlessly, "when he does it to me I'm never really paying attention," so she twists her fingers, fast, so he gasps out, "Oh—f-f—"

"Mean," Neil tells her, laughing. She grins at him and he kisses Greg's temple. His hands are still clasped, light; he's getting better.

"Go on, lie back and think of England," she tells Neil. He snorts, but he does settle back against the pillows, lounging and casual, stretching his legs out, his broad bare feet against their duvet both very absurd and very dear. Sally rubs her free hand over Greg's back while Greg is working the condom open; she tries to keep her right hand still. She isn't mean, not really; she does her best to take it as far as she can and no further, and Greg's breath is coming fast and ragged while he rolls the condom onto Neil with shaking hands. Neil is breathing through his mouth. He's much better at hiding it than Greg is, how turned on he gets, which is a bit odd, because in general Neil's self-control is much worse. Neil doesn't flush and his breathing doesn't get sloppy and his hands don't shake; he just breathes through his mouth and presses hungrily into any contact they give him, his hips shifting up to push his cock through Greg's fist when Greg ducks back down to kiss him; Neil's hands going white-knuckled tight around each other when Sally twists her three fingers, slow slow slow, and Greg makes a desperate sort of a sound and twists to kiss her cheek, her temple, her jaw. It tugs at her, a little, that she can't kiss him, really, but Neil's hands are tied. She nuzzles at Greg's neck instead.

"Fuck," Neil breathes, and then, shifting, "c'mon, Greg, I'll help you along," which is untrue, because with his hands tied, Greg and Sally will have to do most of the work, but Greg nods anyway and Sally nods anyway, because that's what they do. She pulls her fingers out, gets the glove off and rubs both hands over Greg's pink-flushed back, and then she grabs the lube again and shifts over, slicking Neil's cock over the condom; petting down over his balls, her fading marks on the insides of his pale thighs, while Greg gets himself together enough to kneel up over him, facing Sally, crouched over Neil's calves. Greg meets Sally's eyes and she slides her hands up to hold Neil's thighs down, as Greg reaches down between them to guide him. Neil really has no self-control; Sally presses down, hard, but Neil still gasps and tries to push up, and Greg laughs, a little shakily, sinking down slow, slow, slow. 

Sally slides her hands off Neil's legs and up Greg's instead. "All right?" she asks, quiet.

Greg's eyes are closed, his head ducked down. "Remind me again why we didn't," he says, and then stops. He licks his lips. He's going redder, and Sally feels it tugging at her breastbone. It always does.

"It's up to you," Sally reminds him, quiet, "We're always happy to see you," and Neil slides his hands up Greg's sides, murmuring, "You want to lean back?"

Greg nods and leans back, just enough, turning his head so Neil can kiss him, sloppy and wet and heartfelt. Sally licks her lips and stretches out next to them on her side, sliding her hand between her thighs. She _aches_. Greg isn't moving, and Neil can't, much, not with his hands tied, his body pinned beneath Greg's weight, and she has missed them, somehow; she has had Neil, but she has missed them both together. She curls her fingers against herself, still slick with lube. That is on Neil in Greg, and her toes curl, as Greg sighs against Neil's mouth and shifts his weight, all the muscles in his thighs tensing under his skin. Sally leans close and rubs her forehead against their shoulders—Neil's, mostly, and Neil makes a small, desperate noise into her pinned-up hair as Sally turns to watch Greg rock down around him. Sally swallows. She wants to kiss him.

"I want to kiss Sally," Neil is panting, and Sally turns up to meet his eyes, smiling.

"Show her how," Greg asks, breathless, panting against the corner of Neil's cheek, and Neil turns towards him, kisses him deep and hungry, and Sally wriggles closer, so their breath mixes hot and damp between the three of them, very little unshared. Neil is shifting, utterly unable to behave, which is why his hands are tied and Greg and Sally make him stay as he is. Sally likes that Neil can't ever behave, possibly like this even better than when it's just the two of them, when he just barely gets her in the door of the flat after work and hikes her up on top of waist-high catch-all shelves by the door and then drops down onto his knees, getting his lovely hands up under her skirt and kissing her hips and her thighs while he works threefour _five_ long fingers in and out of her and sweat rolls down her throat and her spine and she comes in threefour _five_ endless, shuddering waves. She squirms, thinking about his hands all over her, how he will put his hands all over her and she will kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, and she comes breathless and trembling while Greg is still just barely moving, giving Neil just enough to make him seem half-mad with it, each breath just catching at the top of his throat.

"You're so impatient," Sally tells Neil, breathless, and then slides her fingers up and into his mouth. Neil says something that she strongly suspects is, "Oh, God," but she can't quite tell, and she looks at Greg, who is grinning, eyes wide and dark, still pink all over, just shifting his weight, until Neil twists his head, Sally's fingers brushing against his cheek, and says, "If you two don't stop _teasing_ me—" and Greg laughs.

"I have to do all the work around here, don't I?" he says, and shifts _up_ , and Sally can _hear_ it, skin on skin and shockingly loud, when he shoves back down, just as Neil gasps, "Jesus, _Jesus_ —" and Greg's breath catches, hard.

Greg swallows, and he says, "Sal, you'd better—" and Sally grabs for the condom and gets it on him as quickly as she can. Her pulse is still throbbing all over, and she never takes much, the second time, and this is hardly the first time they've done this, but it's still shocking, somehow, when she gets her weight settled over him and Greg can first push _in_ , hard and thick and oh, _oh_. Neil is panting underneath them both, and Sally meets Neil's eyes, still gasping, some part of her worried even while Greg's hands are sliding over her breasts, grabbing hard at her ribs, even while she can feel Greg impossibly thick inside her, even while she can—she could just rock _back_ —

Neil laughs, breathless, and says, "You really need to move, Greg," and Greg says, "You're so bloody _impatient_ —here, Sally—" sliding his hand down to meet hers, sliding his fingers over her fingers slick close and tight between them, pushing down on the weight of the heat waterfalling down through her body and— "Oh," she hears herself gasping, "I—oh, God," against Greg breathing, "I—Christ, Sally—" as he first rocks _up_.

"All right?" Greg is asking her, as she manages, "Are we crushing you?" and Neil is stretching his body out tight and anxious, panting, " _No_ , God, keep _moving_ — _Greg_ —"

Sally nods, for no reason, and slides her body with Greg's body, pins Neil's shoulders with her sticky palms and lets Greg work her with his big broad hands that could throw her around, could throw the both of them around, if they asked him to. Neil is being still, badly, and Sally moves on them and Greg moves between them and she comes _again_ , Jesus, just as Neil is gasping, "I—oh, okay, I'm—please don't stop, please don't stop, please don't stop," and Greg doesn't stop until Neil groans, " _Now_ ," and Greg and Sally both push down, the both of them, all their weight together. It's probably imagination, mostly, imagination and memory, but Sally still swears she can feel it, Neil coming buried deep in Greg's body with their shared weight holding him down and still, with Greg burying his face in Sally's throat.

"I have to," Greg tells her, " _hurry_ ," breathless, and she nods and pulls off, then holds the base of Neil's condom so that Greg can push up to his knees while Neil still is dazed and gasping, his wrists still tied. Sally feels the tug of it low in her belly, the twinned aches of arousal and sympathy, and when Greg pushes her over onto her back on the pillows next to Neil, pushing into her hard and a shivery little bit too fast, she just arches up into it and wraps her legs around his back. "I," Greg tells her, but it's the last coherent thing he manages, rocking up hard and then stopping, shuddering, as she bites her own lip and bears down around him.

"Christ." Greg presses his face into her neck, just for second. She rubs her nose into his hair, and he sighs, and she turns to look at Neil, who is dark-eyed and sleepy-looking, but he twists over to kiss her eyebrow, anyway. Greg exhales against Sally's collarbone, then struggles up, clumsy, while she holds the base of the condom. "I," Greg tells them, and then rubs at his face, and staggers off towards the loo. Sally and Neil look at each other. They are, most certainly, not laughing.

"You want me to untie you?" she asks, quiet.

"Well, one or the other of us has to mop me up," he points out, which is true. It always seems more important that no one be left hanging than that they use the condoms for anything more than is required by basic common sense; the end result is that while their duvet used to be navy, at this point it's ended up in the washing machine so many times that it's faded to a (surprisingly attractive) sort of a bluish slate. Neil's always patient enough, after; doesn't stop Sally from smirking at him as she helps him off with it, not very tidily.

"You know," she says. "If we could trust you to behave yourself, this wouldn't happen."

"Hm." His voice is soft. "I'd have to be a saint, I think, to keep my hands off of the two of you."

She leans in close enough that their noses are bumping. He sighs, eyes half-closed, and she pulls back just enough to press her fingertips to his lower lip, smiling.

"Not going to untie me, then?" he asks, and she nuzzles at his cheek and murmurs, "Not quite yet." He nods, and she pushes up and pads off to get him a flannel. 

Greg is standing naked in front of their sink, which never fails to get her going, a little. She leans against the doorjamb and watches him wipe himself off, scrunching his face up at her in the mirror.

"Flannel?" he guesses, and she steps in, palms his hip, pressing up against his back. He sighs and leans back against her, and she reaches over for the two clean flannels hanging on the towel bar. He drops the one he's been using over the edge of the sink and takes them from her, wets them with hot water, wrings them out.

"Half an hour?" he asks, turning to hand them back to her, and she swallows.

"Actually," she says, passing the flannels to her other hand. They're still a little hot, but they'll cool fast. "Me and Neil talked about it, after last time."

His brow wrinkles, a little.

"Do you want to stay?" she asks.

"I always stay," he says.

"I mean." Sally sighs. "If you—if you wanted, you could stay now, too. Just—to watch, for now."

"For now," he echoes.

Sally nods. "Just to watch," she repeats, "for now."

Greg doesn't say anything.

"Only if you want to," she says.

"I didn't come around for a month and a half," he reminds her.

"And we missed you," she says, and then, lower, "You don't have to. Just—if you want to."

He's quiet.

"How about we leave the door open?" she suggests. "And you can—it's up to you."

He swallows visibly. "All right," he says, quiet, and she nods and pads back across the hall and into the bedroom.

She wipes herself off with one flannel and drops it in the laundry basket, then climbs back up next to Neil—who is, predictably, a little better than halfway asleep. He hums when the bed dips under her weight. 

"Is he coming?" he asks, voice thick, blinking at her as she wipes him off.

"Maybe," she murmurs. She chucks the flannel over towards the laundry basket. She's glad Neil's so tired; half the time he insists on starting the laundry the same night. "Wrists?" she asks, soft, and he lifts them up, so she can start on the ties.

The lights are still on, so she sees it just fine, when Neil glances over at the doorway and then back up at her, eyes bright.

"Kiss me," he tells her, quiet, and she smiles at him and finishes with the ribbon, so that when she bends down to kiss him, his hands—his lovely hands—are utterly free. She likes Neil's hands best about him. His hands are very gentle and very clever and his fingers are long, graceful; soft on her cheeks and her eyebrows and the curls that have escaped from the pins in her hair. "I love the way you kiss," he tells her, "It is—I can't bear it, sometimes, the way you kiss."

His voice is very gentle. It isn't a secret. Greg must know—Greg _does_ know; it's impossible for him not to know; that there are things that they could stand to share and then things that they could not: Sally's mouth, Neil's hands. But that's changing, isn't it, and neither of them has ever said it quite like this.

"I want Greg to see you touch me," she says, very quietly.

Neil smiles up at her. The first time she whispered it to him, secret and alone with the door closed, he had folded his hand over his mouth and said nothing. This is not the first time. This is the fifteenth time, perhaps, or the eighteenth, or the twentieth, and there are other secrets that are still just theirs, _I want you to teach him how to kiss me_ and _I want there to be nothing between us_ and, soon, _he could throw either of us around, if we asked him to_ , and Greg is watching, standing in the doorway.

"I would like that," Neil says, rolling onto his side. She stretches out on her side, facing him. "I missed him, when he was away," Neil tells her, and then slides his fingertips down over her collarbones, down her chest and her ribs and her belly, and Sally exhales and leans in, and kisses him slow and wet and oceans-deep, where Greg can see. Neil slides his long lovely fingers between her thighs, and she rolls her hips, so that he has better access, so he can shift his knee between her knees and run his fingers along an ever-shrinking arc from thigh to thigh, until she is panting into his mouth, rocking her hips up, desperate for all she's already come three times. He flattens his hand against her, three fingertips just dipped inside, then presses his weight against his thigh against his hand, heavy and inescapable as he spreads his fingers, _just barely_ —

"Jesus fuck," Greg is saying, and Neil is laughing, and Sally isn't doing either because she's just trying to remember how to breathe.

"Are you just going to stand over there watching like some massive pervert?" Neil asks him, using his clean hand to pet Sally's hair off her sweat-sticky forehead, "or are you ever going to come to bed?"

Greg laughs, a little shakily.

"Come on, then," Neil says to Greg, then bends when Sally tugs his head down for a kiss. "Mm." He rubs his nose against hers. "I have to go wash my hands," he reminds her, "since you so wantonly threw that flannel into the laundry basket, where it almost certainly will mildew overnight."

She's not feeling quite up to arguing with him, but she does stick out her tongue, so he licks it, half-laughing, and then rolls off the bed.

Sally exhales and rolls up, still feeling a little wobbily, and grabs her long-discarded knickers and t-shirt off the floor. She'll be freezing in an hour if she doesn't get under the blankets—though probably neither of them would let her fall asleep on top of the covers, anyway. 

Greg is still hovering a bit awkwardly, but at least he's come properly into the room. He puts his boxers back on while Sally's pulling the sheets back and sliding into bed, wriggling down so the blankets come up to her shoulders. Greg comes over, but doesn't get in. He's standing on what Sally has come to think of as his side; she and Neil have never settled, really, which works out fine; they take turns being in the middle when Greg's over, and then fall asleep wherever they happen to fall asleep, the rest of the time. Greg's hand is on the edge of the blankets, unmoving.

Sally smiles up at him. "You can sleep on the lilo if you want to," she tells him, very gently. "Won't offend us, or anything." She doesn't think he's been this uncertain about sleeping in their bed in ages, maybe not since the first time.

"You want me to stay?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says, "we both do," because the two of them aren't uncertain about that part of it at all.

Greg nods slowly, then crawls in, inching down under the blankets, facing Sally. His face is serious.

"Was it too weird?" she asks.

"No-o," he says, slowly, and then stops, and is quiet.

After a minute, the light goes out. In the darkness, Neil comes over and slides in at Sally's back, kisses the side of her neck, her shoulder.

"You put clothes on," he says, a little mournfully, wrapping his arm around her waist, just under her t-shirt. She squeezes his wrist in warning. Neil pauses, then hums and wriggles in, so she has to wriggle in, until she's pressed between him and Greg together, very close and almost—but not quite—too warm. Neil kisses Sally's neck, then reaches out and puts his hand up on Greg's side, and Sally folds hers just beside it, rubbing her thumb over Greg's hip. 

In the shadow, Sally can just barely see Greg blink, but he doesn't pull back at all.

"The first time I kissed you I thought for a second you were going to put my head through the wall," Neil says, conversationally, like it's a joke, like Sally hadn't pressed halfway up to her feet, wondering if she was about to have to break up a fight in their kitchen, over pasta, while Neil was refilling the wine.

"You could give a bloke some warning," Greg says, but the corner of his mouth tugs up, a little.

"We gave you warning," Sally reminds him.

"We gave you _plenty_ of warning," Neil agrees. It's true. Just about the only warning they hadn't given him was an actual point-blank statement that Neil was about to kiss him—though in their defense, the precise timing of that kiss had been a bit of an impulse decision. Sally doesn't blame him. She had always wanted to kiss Greg, too.

Greg's mouth quirks up, just a little. "Well," he says. "You were a bit subtle about it."

"Subtle," Sally says. "Right." She seems to recall approximately a thousand instances of her hand on Greg's thigh, her head on Greg's shoulder when Neil bent to kiss her ear, her and Neil crowded in on Greg's either side on their tiny two-person sofa while they watched terrible film after terrible film for that entire last six months of Greg's highly acrimonious divorce; she hadn't thought they were subtle at all, but she's too relaxed to quibble at present.

"What would you do, though?" Neil asks Greg, quiet. "If Sally kissed you?"

Greg takes a breath, then lets it out, slow. Neil's hand is still resting on Greg's side, unmoving. Greg is looking past Sally, at Neil, but he looks back down at her when she squeezes his hip.

"You want to kiss me?" Greg asks her. She nods. "And." Greg pauses, glancing up at Neil. "And—you're all right with that?"

"Yeah," Neil says, quiet. "We talked about it a lot, while you were gone. We missed you."

"Sally said that too." Greg swallows, looking back to Sally. 

She scrunches her nose up at him, and he laughs, just a little, bright and surprised.

After a minute, he says, "Probably kiss you back."

She smiles at him, and asks, "Mind if I try it and find out?"

"No," he says, "that's be—fine," very quietly, so she leans in and presses her mouth to his mouth, very gently. It's nothing like kissing Neil, just like having him inside her is nothing like having Neil inside her. She likes it, though. She tucks her feet back flat against Neil's calves, and Neil sighs against the back of her neck.

Sally pulls back, and Greg breathes out, slow. 

"Still sleeping here?" Sally asks. "Not tempted to put anyone's head through a wall?"

Greg laughs. "You two've rather worn me out, actually," he says.

"Mm, well, that's all right, then." Neil stretches over her to kiss him, their bodies arched around hers, warm and close. She closes her eyes, squeezing Greg close, as Neil settles back down behind her.

After a minute, Neil says, "Maybe I should start the laundry."

" _No_ , go to _sleep_ ," Sally tells him, and Greg adds, "We will tie you up again, if we have to," and Neil presses his face to the back of Sally's shoulder. She can feel him smiling.


End file.
